


Muse, Chimerical

by Cat_Latin



Series: Chosen Family [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Mary, Liberties Taken With Faerie Lore, Magical Realism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Polyfidelity, Threesome - F/M/M, Wake-Up Sex, faerie lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 16:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12346365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Latin/pseuds/Cat_Latin
Summary: Back, after an almost three year hiatus!This series started out as a collection of Season 3 missing scenes, became a Sherlock/John/Mary love story without any real planning, then veered sharply into Magical Realism territory.The plan was to finish before Season 4, which obviously did not work out. So now the plan is to take a holiday from both canon and reason, and bring the ensemble further into Other Realms.Please forgive my skewed timeline on Mary's pregnancy throughout the series, and try to roll with it; the fan-run John Watson blog confused me back then, (I thought it was a BBC invention) with its July dates for the Watson's honeymoon. Then I took another peek at the wedding invitation, and much facepalming ensued. For the most part, I'm ignoring the existence of S4 currently, to get this monster finished!





	Muse, Chimerical

**Author's Note:**

> Back, after an almost three year hiatus! 
> 
> This series started out as a collection of Season 3 missing scenes, became a Sherlock/John/Mary love story without any real planning, then veered sharply into Magical Realism territory. 
> 
> The plan was to finish before Season 4, which obviously did not work out. So now the plan is to take a holiday from both canon and reason, and bring the ensemble further into Other Realms. 
> 
> Please forgive my skewed timeline on Mary's pregnancy throughout the series, and try to roll with it; the fan-run John Watson blog confused me back then, (I thought it was a BBC invention) with its July dates for the Watson's honeymoon. Then I took another peek at the wedding invitation, and much facepalming ensued. For the most part, I'm ignoring the existence of S4 currently, to get this monster finished!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock was alone in the flat. Curled in his chair, laptop balanced on his knees, he was attempting to absorb an article about changes in the dance language of bees, when given cocaine. The topic had nothing to do with the issue at hand, and so counted as a ‘break’ from thinking about the case, although John would argue to the contrary. Because he was still Sherlock, a significant portion of his brain continued to ruminate.

 

First, the improbable: Sherlock’s favorite antagonist (and if he was honest, his friend), Irene Adler, back from exile, and living rough on the streets of London, stalking and photographing Sherlock and his people, and anonymously mailing the prints to Baker Street.

 

The images were surveillance-style, candid shots taken with a 35-millimeter camera, and developed on expensive, gallery-quality paper.  The backs of each bore a distinctive watermark: a cat in black silhouette, back arched, its mouth open, fangs bared in a hiss. This was the very image that Sherlock and Irene used to communicate, as they traveled separately from Karachi to London, several years ago.

 

Then, the impossible: Plain to observe with all of Sherlock’s senses, while cornered in an alleyway, a _felis catus_ , a typical black, shorthaired domestic cat briefly and violently transformed into Irene.

 

In her true form, she spoke to him, uttered cryptic warnings, quickly reverted back to feline form, and promptly took off before Sherlock could stop her.  

 

Irene had been herself, irreverent, flirtatious even. She’d also been ill and afraid, and at the end, had lapsed into incoherence. That, for Sherlock, had been the most terrifying moment of all. Irene was suffering, and he did not know what to do. No matter where she went, or what she did, Irene was _his_ , a member of his cohort, just like the rest of those he’d named to himself, and her damage _enraged_ him. 

 

Then, out of the realm of the improbable, towards the fanciful, yet with signs as consistent as the hum of traffic outside his window: James Moriarty, alive, and somehow connected to all of this, possibly responsible. Maddening. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut until he saw stars.

 

Breathing slowly to calm himself, Sherlock began to reflect on another recent development, beyond the fanciful, and firmly in the land of the previously unimaginable: John and Mary, both sharing his bed, and both precariously cradling the atrophied lump in his chest that served as a heart. Sherlock breathed that knowledge in solemnly for a moment, new every time it occurred to him in these last few weeks, exhaled, remembering, inhaled, wanting.

 

Sherlock was rubbish at sexual fantasy, perhaps because the day to day reality he experienced far surpassed any fiction. More satisfying to recover and stream the events of this morning across his mind.

 

_Sherlock awoke to Mary, pressing insistently against him. He was lying on his side, felt her lips brush his throat, felt her hand wrapped around the head of his cock. His body had come online before his consciousness, so he was already hard and weeping, pushing his hips up and into the tight circle of her fist, already shivering from her stuttering breath against his pulse._

_John was flush against Mary’s back. Sherlock watched the muscles of his shoulder flex as he worked--judging by Mary’s occasional swearing--what was probably most of the fingers of his hand in and out of her body, as she ground against him, and surged forward, against Sherlock._

_Mary gasped when John abruptly pulled free, and she growled satisfaction when he grasped her hips, and lined up just so. She huffed, as if gut-punched when he slammed into her, and a low, desperate groan escaped Sherlock’s throat._

_John hummed agreement, and began to move with long, steady strokes, a cruel little kick to his hips at the end of each. John’s hand came down into the humid little chasm between Sherlock and Mary, stroked around the pale moon of Mary’s belly, to cup her vulva, most likely to press the heel of his palm against her clit in that way that maddened her, and rewarded your cock with a satisfying squeeze. John groaned aloud after a moment, and Sherlock smiled._

_Mary bit down hard on Sherlock’s throat, and he jerked in her grasp. She said, “What do you want?" As if they weren’t already presenting him with a banquet._

_"You always know what I want," Sherlock had replied._

 

A sudden burst of staccato vibration over Sherlock’s heart signaled a barrage of texts.  He reached into his breast pocket, and retrieved his phone.

 

From Mycroft, which doused the heat gathering in his trousers immediately: 

 

_Sending Anthea to Gymbox at Covent Garden, for more information._

 

From Lestrade, also sent to John:

 

_Crime scene at Gymbox, Covent Garden.  You have to see this._

 

From John:

 

_In cab to Gymbox, Covent Garden, trust you are too._

From Billy Wiggins:

_Rogue Changelings have eventful afterlives. The spider is watching. The Rite should cloud his eyes, and heal the cat._

Either Sherlock's number was accidentally added to Wiggin's gaming group, or the idiot was tweaking too hard to use clear code, or the little punk was trying to tell him something important that Sherlock couldn't immediately decipher.

 

And finally, no less cryptic to anyone but those closest to him, from Mary, also sent to John, and the thing that finally launched him from his seat:

 

_Leaving Gymbox for the cinema. Might try to see Avanti, where there's death in the toilet under mysterious circumstances._

Translation: High drama at Gymbox. A body or bodies, discovered in a bathroom at the gym during her yoga class, and Mary was planning to extract herself from the building. Sherlock knew better than to dissuade her, but the phone buzzed with John’s inevitable cautioning to stay put.

 

Phone, shoes, coat, scarf, steps, door, street. Cab? At this time of day, Sherlock’s calculations predicted a two minute advantage if he simply cut through the park at a run.

 

John was waiting for Sherlock at the door to Gymbox, looking grim.  An officer let them in, and walked them through the establishment, towards the scene. No one else was in the lobby. 

 

“Place seems more nightclub than fitness center,” John observed.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thumping music and mood lighting, as he and John strode past pink neon signs, through a space where rows and rows of stationary cycles stood like soldiers, empty and waiting, down a carpeted hallway, and past a dance studio where most of the staff and clientele were being detained. No Mary, though _,_ and John glanced at Sherlock and frowned.  They stopped before the manager’s office.  Through the glass door, he could see Donovan interviewing their current, and completely wrong suspect. Sherlock experienced a moment of startled incredulity to notice Anderson hovering at her elbow, with a forensics kit. Surprise quickly moved to rage. _Mycroft!_

 

Sherlock inhaled and willed himself calm, and eyed the annoyed, and obviously uninvolved woman from head to toe.  He ignored John’s tense voice asking another officer for Mary, and had to crane his neck around Lestrade to complete his observation of the suspect’s shoes when the DI stepped into his line of sight.  Lestrade was holding the suspect’s phone.  Sherlock plucked the device out of his fingers, ignoring the outraged, “Oi!” and searched the browser history.

 

“We’re actually attempting to determine her whereabouts Doctor Watson,” the officer was telling John. “Has she called you in the last thirty minutes?”

 

John’s voice at the edge of its patience: “Yes, she rang me, something about being detained here, by you lot. Misplaced her, have we?”

 

Donovan emerged from the office, trailed by Anderson, who kept trying to catch her eye. She ignored him completely, and shot Sherlock her usual glare. Her heart wasn't quite in it today, though, distracted somehow, but not by the foolish former lover at her heels. She was watching past Anderson, down a darkened hallway, where a Gymbox employee had her hands in the breaker box, flipping switches to no avail. Something...made this interesting. 

 

“We reviewed video from the hallway camera," Donovan told Lestrade. "She was the last one out of the restroom before the thing was discovered."

 

"She isn't _precisely_ the type you'd see at the gym,” Anderson offered. He grinned at Sherlock, "consulting forensics, I am," he confided. "Thank your brother for me."

 

"Consulting Sherlock-fanboy," John muttered, which surprised a snicker out of Sherlock. John's mouth quirked in response, but his eyes were troubled.

 

Sherlock recited to Lestrade, quickly as he could, knowing he'd get nowhere with the DI until he did: “Your suspect has a three-year membership to Jubilee Hall, ready to expire.  She likely wants to switch gyms, and is visiting on a friend's membership, because she’s dissatisfied and looking for a change.  Less than a minute spent reviewing today’s client records would have confirmed that.”  Anderson scowled, while Sherlock continued, “Her trainers and her exercise clothes are high-quality, but have significant wear and tear.”  He thumbed open her saved messages.  “Here, in her email, a nine-month-old receipt from Athletica: Workout clothes for plus-sized women.”  Sherlock held the phone up for them to see, and handed it to Lestrade.  “Not all who go to the gym appear perfectly trim, nor is every trim person fit. Anderson, your stupidity continues to be your most distinguishing characteristic."

 

"Mean," Anderson mumbled.

 

"True," Sherlock said.

 

"Boys," Lestrade sighed.

 

"Anderson is wrong. Your suspect is long gone, Lestrade, and when I say suspect, I mean the individual actually responsible for the crime.  May I see the body?"

 

John added, "Also, where is Mary Watson?”

 

“I brought her to the dance studio, and from there she left the scene,” Donovan said.  _But we both know you know that_ , she didn’t say, but her eyes on Sherlock’s did.  She glanced at her watch. “They’ve been sweeping the area the last twenty minutes, looking for her. I'm about to join them."

 

Then a uniformed officer came around the corner escorting Mary, who tried to slow, but the officer seemed to gently but firmly guide her on. 

 

John was immediately on their heels, demanding to know what was going on. Suddenly Mary spun to face him, leaning past the officer, her eyes wild, tracks of mascara down her cheeks. She had a jumper draped over her arm, but when she turned, it fell away, revealing that she and the officer were handcuffed together. "Stay with Sherlock," she insisted. To Sherlock, she said, "Sherlock, get the womb! Don't let them take it!"

 

"What's going on?" John was saying. "What are you talking about?" Then several things happened at once: Donovan took Mary by her other arm, just as Sherlock really saw the uniformed officer, who locked eyes with him, and put a finger to her lips, before turning with Donovan, and pulling Mary down the hall. It was Irene! Sherlock started after them, a few paces behind John, Lestrade behind Sherlock shouting, "Sally! Where are you taking her?"

 

Suddenly Anthea stepped into their path, managing to stop Sherlock and Lestrade in their tracks. Anthea glanced quickly behind her, at John's rapidly retreating back, seemed to give up on him, and turned sharply back to face them.  "Let them go. Mr. Holmes, I'm to take you to the crime scene. Detective Inspector, Mycroft Holmes wishes to speak to you." On cue, Lestrade's phone went off. He swore under his breath, and turned to take the call, while Anthea led Sherlock past the office, down another hallway to the women's loo, and into the handicapped toilet stall, where a body lay on the tiles.

 

“Another message,” Sherlock murmured.

 

It was not an actual human body, but an effigy, built of an array of antiques and rubbish: fingers made of eyeglasses, limbs of old carpentry tools, empty bottles, buttons, chair legs, a broken music box, and skeins of yarn.  There was a blonde wig, placed over the head of the effigy.  The face was a Styrofoam wig block; the features were made from silk flowers.  The breasts were of plastic kitchen storage containers and golf balls.   The rest of the figure was filled out with bullet casings, hundreds of them.  The body-shaped collection lay on its back, spread-eagled on the floor. 

 

It was wearing Mary’s clothes, likely the items she changed out of to get into her exercise clothes.  The blouse was unbuttoned, and there was a significant circle of empty space where the abdomen should be. 

 

The stall had a foldaway nappy changing station, which was open, and featured a small tableau that had Sherlock thanking every nonexistent god that John was not with him. 

 

Someone had taken a thick sharpie pen, and drawn a rectangle the size of a loaf of bread  in the center of the table.  There were arrows drawn, and another clear printed message, in handwriting Sherlock well-recognized. Resting near it was a clear plastic bag, medical waste grade, filled with an opaque liquid solution.  Floating inside was a porcelain baby doll, likely an antique, circa 1930, with a target painted on its head. 

 

Sherlock dropped to a crouch, and popped open his magnifying glass. He gave the bullet casings a perfunctory examination; really, he needed to take a moment to steel himself. Then he leaned across the effigy to sniff at the closure of the bag containing the doll.  Amniotic fluid, as he suspected, at least 500 ml, difficult to preserve, but whose? Mary's clothing was dry when she was led past them, he told himself insistently. Her body showed no sign of injury. Mary had been in a state of emotional excitement, possibly faking it, as she was even better than Sherlock at manufacturing tears at will, but _why?_

 

“Why the fuss, over a pile of rubbish in the shape of a body?" Sherlock asked aloud. He turned to Anthea.  "I suppose you know why my brother is orchestrating this show of putting Mary in police custody?

 

"Of course I know who has Mary in custody," Anthea said. "But the answer you seem to expect is that your eyes were decieving you, or your brother manipulating you. Perhaps you're thinking Detective Donovan was advancing the theory that Mary might be responsible for setting up the effigy herself,” Anthea said.  “Some sort of attention-seeking behavior.”

 

“Of course she would, that would be her style.  Why on earth do they keep her employed?”

 

"The Detective Inspector wanted Mrs. Watson detained for her protection, as this seems likely to be a direct threat, but he can't protect her from what's trying to get her.”  Anthea handed Sherlock an evidence bag.  Inside was a small, sealed envelope, addressed to Sherlock.  “This was found next to the doll.”

 

Sherlock pulled the envelope from the bag, briefly examined the writing, and slid the item in his pocket, without remark.  He continued to examine the effigy. “You’re here to meddle on my brother’s behalf; what wisdom do you have to impart?”

 

Anthea said, “Eleven years ago, your Mary had the mother of all contracts: a series of CIA-assigned hits, within the major artery of a certain criminal organization.  It no longer matters which one.  She accomplished the assassinations with due diligence, over a period of seven years, and covered her tracks by meticulously and successfully making each murder appear to be the work of the same serial killer.  Then she completed her task by framing another unrelated CIA-assigned target for all of them.  He's on Death Row in Texas, with no hope for release. 

 

 “Mary is not a serial killer by nature,” Anthea continued, “but she spent a good deal of time learning the part, and it began to affect her.  She kept souvenirs of the killings, in order to get a feel for the part.  She held onto them for quite a long time, moving them to several locations, taking considerable risk.  She finally abandoned her collection when she came to London.”

 

Anthea pocketed her Blackberry, and approached the effigy spread out on the floor.  She bent to inspect the head more closely.  “Much of what you see in and around this poppet is from that collection.”  She spread her hands, as she observed the mess. “This was the crowning jewel of information, held hostage by the now convieniently deceased Charles Augustus Magnussen, concerning she who calls herself Mary Morstan-Watson.”

 

“I'd see that bastard live again, if I could put another bullet through his skull," Sherlock said emphatically. "And what Mary did was _brilliant_. Revelations about mine and Mary's murderous pasts are old news, and you’ve only helped me admire her more.  Why on earth are you even speaking to me?”

 

“Because you asked for my wisdom, and you got it. There are those who can never stop knowing a thing, no matter how much you cover it up, or try to erase it,” Anthea said.  “One story, told out loud, is all it takes.  Sometimes all it takes is a name.”

 

Sherlock felt the beginnings of fear.  “What name?”

 

“The world is full of ears,” Anthea went on, as if she hadn’t heard him. She retrieved her Blackberry from her pocket, and began typing rapidly. The greenish light of the screen illuminated her face strangely, making the pupils of her eyes appear to shrink to slits. “There are contracts that can't be broken, and infinite loopholes.” Anthea frowned into the glow of her device.  “It's vexing.”  She looked up and made rare eye contact, and her pupils did not change.  “Do you know why I’m here, Sherlock Holmes, standing with you in the stall of a public bathroom, while speaking in riddles?”

 

“Up until a few minutes ago, I believed you were merely sent in your capacity as Mycroft's senior service monkey, but I expect you’re going to tell me differently, now.”

 

Anthea narrowed her eyes at him, but didn’t take the bait. “There’s a prodigious game of chess going on,” she told him.  “Not everyone knows they’re playing, no matter how clever they think they are," she said pointedly.  "And of those who _do_ , there’s one who does not _wish_ to be a pawn.”

 

“Would that pawn be cat-shaped, by any chance?”

 

"Well done," Anthea murmured, and inclined her head toward the door.

 

“I saw a cat,” a child’s voice insisted from just outside the bathroom, as if on cue.  “I need to talk to Mr. Holmes!”

 

Anthea looked at him expectantly, and bent to continue her inspection of the effigy.  “What a coincidence,” Sherlock muttered, as the boy was sent through. Sherlock closed the door of the stall containing Anthea and the effigy, and met Archie by the sinks.

 

“I came with my mum, and Mrs. Watson—”

 

“Yes, obviously—”

 

“They were doing yoga, and I was in the room with the other kids—”

 

“The cat, Archie?”

 

The child stepped closer to Sherlock with wide eyes, glanced once behind him, and whispered urgently, "There was a black cat. Then there was a lady. Well I thought it was a boy, then I thought she was a lady, and she gave me a message for you. "She said..." Archie closed his eyes, and his hands balled into fists, as he pushed to recall. "She said, 'you can't trust the black cat, until the serpent and the badger have set her to rights.' She said, 'once that happens, the three of them will help you achieve hive mind, and control the swarm.' She said,  'you must recover the womb, before it is brought to the spider, and devoured.' She said, 'all of this is happening today,' and she also said, 'I'm sorry for speaking in riddles.'

 

Archie's eyelids squeezed tighter as he concentrated, "She had light skin, with short dark hair, thin frame, maybe ill, because there was sweat along her hairline, and her skin had greyish undertones. At first, she was  in a jumper, with jeans and trainers, but then when she left, she was in a police officer's uniform, but I didn't see her change clothes, it just happened! From cat to lady, to cat, to lady again. I tried to remember everything, Mr. Holmes. I think I did."

 

Sherlock crouched down, so he was eye-level with the child, and grasped his shoulders. "How many times did the lady get you to repeat that before you remembered it?"

 

"Once, Mr. Holmes."

 

"It must have been very difficult to remember, after seeing something so...impossible."

 

"I think the sight might have helped sir, sort of like your blog entry, the one about adrenalin response, and its effect on sense memory."

 

"Are you alright, Archie?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

Sherlock scanned his face for any sign of distress. When he was satisfied the child had taken no harm, he said,“Thank you, Archie. You were rubbish as a ring bearer at the Watson wedding, but you have a keen developing mind. The article you posted in the comments of my blog about advances in flow hives was very interesting. You have a promising future as a great thinker. Just don't go to work for the Yard when you grow up. They're morons."  Sherlock stood, and gave the child an awkward pat on the shoulder, and Archie hugged him tight around the waist, which always surprised him. Then the child ran back to the bathroom doorway, where his mother was waiting, and they left.

 

Sherlock turned back to the closed door of the bathroom stall. "I feel certain you could have told me all that," he said to Anthea. "Why did you need the child?"  No answer, and when he opened the stall door, there was no trace of Anthea, or any part of the effigy, including the bag of amniotic fluid with the floating baby doll on the changing table. The sharpie marks remained, though, including the written message: "Place Sacrifice Here."

 

 _"Get the womb. Don't let them take it!"_ Mary had said.

 

Sherlock took off at a run, down the carpeted hallway, past the office and Lestrade, who called after him, and down the darkened hallway, where Mary had been taken, where John had followed.

 


End file.
